


William and John

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Wee Bit of Horror, BAMF Sherlock, Bisexual John, Bisexual Original Female Character, Espionage, F/M, Foreign Countries, Homeless Network, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, MI-6, Sapiosexual Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Terrorism, The Middle East
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when John looks back, he thinks about what led him here. He thinks about how many things had to happen exactly the way they did. Really, he mostly thinks about the time following Mary's sudden departure from his life. Specifically, he thinks about the month of July, which is when everything he knew about Sherlock Holmes was suddenly turned on its head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, everyone. This is my first time writing a legitimate fanfiction here (or anywhere really). As a result, this may turn out to be the most ridiculous thing you've ever read. Or not. The eye of the beholder and whatnot.
> 
> Anyway, just a couple of little things to add before I begin. One, I don't have a beta or a Brit- Picker as of right now. If anyone's willing, let me know in the comment section. Two, this is multi- chaptered, and I have no idea how frequently I'll be able to post, as I have scholastic responsibilities. Three, my characterization is very defined. To me, John Watson, while a good man at heart, is a bit of an asshat. My portrayal and opinion of John Watson is not in any way, shape, or form indicative of Martin Freeman's character. Four, I take absolutely no credit for any canon characters or events from the BBC's Sherlock, but I do take full credit for my original characters. They are not meant to depict anyone in particular, and are in fact a mash- up of character traits. Five, please pardon any Americanisms, because I am an American citizen, born and raised. 
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, or grammar corrections, leave them below in the comment section. Kudos is always welcomed, as is CONSTRUCTIVE criticism. 
> 
> I think I've gone on long enough. Buh- bye.
> 
> -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
> 
> Update: I've found a lovely person who has offered to act as my beta. So, yay!

Sometimes, when John looks back, he thinks about what led him here. He thinks about how many things had to happen exactly the way they did. Really, he mostly thinks about the time following Mary's sudden departure from his life. Specifically, he thinks about the month of July, which is when everything he knew about Sherlock Holmes was suddenly turned on its head. 

Mary left John in the May of 2016, following a fight of epic proportions. Funny enough, he can't remember what the fight was about, only that it was the catalyst for an extremely ugly, albeit brief, divorce. Seven days after the fight, Mary grabbed her daughter and left. John had stopped thinking of her as his daughter once the paternity test came back. He wasn't all that surprised in all honesty. What was one more lie on top of the mountain that Mary had brought with her? 

Mary was the only one who in any way benefitted from the divorce. In the course of nine days she gained complete custody of Emily, their house in the suburbs, and three quarters of their combined life savings, leaving John with his medical kit, about thirteen- thousand pounds, and a motorcycle that he hadn't used since he was twenty.

The only sensible place for him to go was back to Baker Street. So back to Baker Street he went. Which was when everything went to shit. 

When he tried to open the door, the key didn't work. Following John's marriage to Mary, John had attempted to return the key to Sherlock, who refused to take it, on the grounds that he'd just melt the damn thing anyway, and it might end up being helpful. 

After three consecutive and unsuccessful tries, John just rang the bell, which was actually functioning for once. Mrs. Hudson came to the door, dressed in her best paisley dress and her baking apron, with flour in her hair. She anxiously wiped her hands on the front of her apron and wrapped him in a matronly hug. 

"John, dear! I wasn't expecting you! Haven't seen you around here for months!"

"It's been too long, Mrs. Hudson. Do you have any idea why my key doesn't work?"

"Well, when he left, he insisted I have the locks changed, safety and all that, you know how he is-"

"Left? What do you mean, left?"

She gave him a look of genuine confusion.

"John, didn't you hear?"

"Hear what?"

She gave him a look of pity. 

"Sherlock moved out, John. He moved out two months ago."


	2. Chapter Two

John's mouth opened and closed rapidly. "Moved out, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, yes of course. He didn't tell you?"

John could hardly hear her over the pounding of blood in his ears.  _Left? Without telling me? That bastard. That utter and complete bastard._ _  
_

Through gritted teeth John spat, "And just where did he go?" 

"Wouldn't tell me. You know how he is about his privacy-"

John stormed out without letting her finish. As he waved down a cab, he punched in Mycroft's number. The line rang three times before Mycroft picked up. 

"Dr. Watson," he drawled. 

"Where the hell is he, Mycroft?" 

"I wouldn't know. We lost touch after a month. Why are you so interested now, I wonder? Could it be because your divorce came through and you need somewhere to stay? Because the timing is very coincidental." His condescension was practically oozing through the speaker. 

"Stuff it, you pompous arse. Where was he when you lost contact?"

"Confidential."

"Fuck confidential."

"He went back to work, John."

"Back to work?"

"MI-6, John."

"Where?"

"John-"

"Where?"

"Try Istanbul."

"Turkey?"

"No, Antarctica. Of course Turkey. Look for anyone going by the name 'Vernet'. If you can't find him, look for 'Bhānumatī'. He'll be wherever they are."

"Who's that?"

"Goodnight, John. And good luck."

"Wait, Mycroft!" But the line had already cut off.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, don't know if anyone looked up what the foreign word from last chapter meant, but it's pretty obscure. I'll reveal later. 
> 
> Moving on. I'm still looking for a Brit- Picker or a beta, so if anyone's interested, just leave a comment. I was kindly reminded last chapter that people in the United Kingdom do not, in fact, use American currency, and that I should probably convert to pounds. It's little things like that that make the story better, so feel free to contribute. Bye!

The London rain hadn't stopped for a second during John's trek to Heathrow. His motorcycle, although technically functioning, had begun making strange noises vaguely reminiscent of a sick cat, which may have influenced his decision to abandon it in front of a seedy head shop. 

As a result, he was soaked, dirt poor, and utterly pissed off. While John outwardly considered himself a man of rationality and reason, he knew that a temper fit to scorch the sun lay just beneath the surface. He'd inherited the trait from his late father, who had died when he was fifteen. George Watson, although widely considered to be a pillar of the community, was in fact the polar opposite within the constraints of his home. His character was centered mostly on the bottle, scripture, and the horse races, which made him a nightmare for Margot and Harry Watson, who were the recipients of his wrath. He left John alone for most of his childhood, and saved his anger for Harry, who embodied most of his hates in the world, which John found ironic, seeing as Harry took after him in so many ways. 

John, at least, hadn't inherited the love of the bottle like his sister had, although neither of them were much for scripture, apart from John's desperate pleas in a far away desert.

However, the idea of a stiff drink didn't repulse John as it typically did. Rather, it beckoned him with the promise of a hazy head and a one- night stand. The only that kept him from entering the nearest bar was the unfortunate realization that he couldn't afford both a plane to Istanbul and enough beer to make him forget himself for a while. 

Luckily for John, the next flight to Istanbul was within the next two hours. 

As he strapped himself into his seat, enduring the curious looks sent his way, his phone vibrated. 

Upon checking it, John found a single message from Mycroft. 

"If not in Istanbul, go to Beirut. Look for Parfois, or the name mentioned before. You'll find an additional sum has been added to your bank account. Be careful. -MH"


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great news! A lovely person has offered to be my beta/ Brit- Picker! As a result, I'm no longer seeking anyone.

Shortly after John received the text from Mycroft, the captain announced the restriction of cell phones, and John was forced to push thoughts of the mysterious 'Parfois'/'Bhānumatī' out of his head.

With his time, John inspected his fellow passengers. To his left was a young woman reading a book in what appeared to be Farsi, and to his right was a small boy sleeping against his mother's shoulder. He briefly wondered what business they had in Istanbul, but quickly remembered that he typically left the deductions to Sherlock.

Sherlock, who wasn't at Baker Street. Sherlock, who he hadn't seen in months. Sherlock, who had told everyone but him that he was leaving. Sherlock, who apparently worked with MI- 6. Sherlock, who was somewhere in Turkey or Lebanon with some anonymous character with a code name. Sherlock,with whom he thought he might be in love.

To say that he was emotionally confused would be an understatement.

John had realized long ago that his attentions were not limited to women, and had made his peace with it. His numerous protests against anyone's assumptions about his sexuality were less out of shame than out of a need for accuracy.

As a result, John was fully aware that his feelings towards Sherlock went beyond friendship, which is why he'd attempted to make a move that first night at Angelo's. However, Sherlock had turned him down quickly, and John had let his attraction lay dormant for years. He'd been quite content to maintain his fiction indefinitely, but then Sherlock had made his speech at the wedding and put all of his cards on the table. 

As soon as Sherlock had finished speaking, John had wanted to drop everything and return to Baker Street, but his sense of duty recalled him. He knew that he couldn't abandon Mary at the altar. He couldn't abandon the woman who had saved him from himself for a man whose slightly sociopathic tendencies might leave him stranded and heartbroken within a week. So he stayed, and contained himself once again.

But now, Mary was gone, as was Emily; his need for containment had gone with them. If John ever found the git, he promised himself that he'd snog him silly.

He jolted out of his thoughts as the plane touched ground. He'd arrived.


	5. Chapter Five

John hated Istanbul. Absolutely loathed it. It was crowded, and noisy, and he didn't speak Turkish. He'd picked up a bit of Pashto during his time in the army, but that didn't really help in metropolitan Turkey. It was smelly, and hot, and oppressive, and John utterly hated it. But really, John's biggest problem with Istanbul was that it wasn't London.

After attempting primitive communication with the cab driver, who clearly didn't appreciate his efforts, John was left in one of the seediest neighborhoods the driver could find.

It was only after the cab driver drove off that John understood the full extent of his situation. He was alone, standing in a shady street in a foreign country with limited funds and resources, looking for his lunatic of a best friend or someone known as Bhānumatī.

After assessing his admittedly poor situation, he decided to contact Mycroft.

**Where am I supposed to look? -JW**

It was only a minute or so later that Mycroft replied.

**Where does Sherlock usually turn when looking for someone hiding? -MH**

**The Homeless Network. But there isn't a Homeless Network here. -JW**

**So make one. -MH**


	6. Chapter Six

John really wished that Sherlock were there with him. Not only because it would mean that he could abandon the entire mission, but also that he might actually be able to communicate with the many homeless people from whom he was attempting to get information. Sherlock always had a way with people of poorer fortunes than himself, something that John attributed to his time on the streets during the peak of his drug use. 

John's situation might have been improved if he had any money to spare, or if he was capable of communicating without extravagant hand gestures that were probably considered quite offensive. Attempting to mime the words, "best friend missing", " do you speak English", or "looking for stupid clot of a friend" turned out to be incredibly difficult. 

John's break came an hour after the sun had set, when the lamps were lit and couples walked hand in hand to and from dates. He was walking along the road, cringing at the bitter smells of human bodies, spices, and petrol when he was suddenly jerked into an alley.

He was prepared to fight, already straightening into military posture, but a glance at his opponent made him pause. A young woman, no more than seventeen, was desperately trying to quiet him with a finger on his lips. As he stilled, he took in her appearance. 

Her eyes were clear and dark brown, but blackened on both sides. Her nose was upturned and petite, but caked with dried blood. Her lip was busted, and her slender wrists were circled with dark bruises in the shape of fingertips. 

She took her finger from his lips and motioned for him to follow her. She walked around the corner, beckoning him to hurry. 

She led him through the twisted and dark streets without a word, until she paused just under the awning of a closed restaurant. She looked over her shoulder, as if she were expecting to be followed. 

She turned to him. 

"You are Englishman, yes?" 

"Yes. You speak English?"

"Little. Learned some from my grandmother. I know where to find Bhānumatī. Not friend, but Bhānumatī."

He leaned forward eagerly. 

"You do? Where?" 

"Pay first."

"I don't have any lira."

"English money works. Thirty."

He handed over the thirty pounds, albeit grudgingly. 

She pulled a wrinkled strip of paper from her pocket. On it was a poorly written address, hardly legible in its childish scrawl. 

"Go here. Don't tell." 

"Right. Okay."

"Tell them that Cemile sent you. Bye."

She was gone in an instant, the faint swish of her skirt the only indication that she was ever there.  
He walked out to the main road and hailed a cab, thankfully with a far more polite and understanding driver, who drove him to the address scribbled on the paper. 

The cab driver wasn't thrilled to be paid with English currency, but he accepted it with slightly tired smile, much to John's relief. 

When the cab driver left, John looked at the building where the man had left him. It was a hotel with two stories, heralded only by a burned out sign on the side of the building. 

If John was mugged, he was going to kill Sherlock himself. 

He entered the establishment and was met with warmth and the scent of cinnamon. A kind looking old woman stood at the front desk, giving him a smile. When he asked haltingly for anyone named Bhānumatī, she got out from behind her desk and ushered him towards a decrepit elevator. She wrote the room number on his hand with a marker and hobbled with surprising speed to her desk. 

He was surprised that the elevator didn't fail on its slow and halting journey up, and he was more than happy to exit the rattling death trap. There were only ten rooms on the second floor, and the room number written on his hand was easy to find. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and rapped on the wooden door three times. He heard the shuffling of feet from inside and then the rattling of the door chain being removed. 

The door opened, revealing a woman in her late twenties, leaning against the door frame with a cigarette in hand, dressed in olive green military issued trousers and a drab tank top. Her hair was shaved off, and scar slashed from her upper cheekbone to the bottom of her jaw. He finally squared himself up to look her in the face, only to met by a one- sided grin and a raised eyebrow. 

"Bhānumatī?"

A flat American accent replied, "Sometimes."

"I'm-"

"Dr. John Watson. I know. I've heard a lot about you. Come in, won't you? We've a lot to talk about."


	7. Chapter Seven

John stood in shocked silence. He had been expecting something else entirely. Maybe some mysterious man in a suit, somebody else's nameless P.A.,or a laptop sitting on a table waiting for him to start an anonymous online conversation. Not an American with a scarred face and an easy, lopsided grin. 

She opened the door and turned quickly. As he stepped in and closed the door behind him, he heard clattering from the mini- kitchen. 

Her voice called from around the corner. "I don't have much, but I could whip up some tea if you'd like. Other than tea or coffee, all I have is beer. Thoughts, Dr. Watson?"

He stepped into the more open space of the room. The sight of it sent a shiver up his back. The room was strikingly similar to the desolate bedsit he'd been in after his discharge, with its perfectly made bed and excessive cleanliness. He'd stared hopelessly at an army- issued handgun at a desk eerily similar to the one pressed against the far wall. He was pulled from his thoughts by a hand snapping its fingers in front of his nose. 

"You okay?"

He shook his head minutely. "I'm fine. Who are you?"

She smiled wistfully, and looked to the side. "Not quite sure. But I'd wager that that's not why you're here."

"Fair enough. Where's Sherlock?" 

Her stance suddenly straightened and her gaze grew hard. "Why do you want to know?"

John stepped backwards slightly out of instinct. "Because he's my best friend, and I'd like to see him. He never told me he was leaving."

"He left England ages ago."

"Yes. What's your point?"

"It seems to me that you didn't bother to see him until he could do something for you. I'm not sure what, but I'd bet it has something to do with that ring indent of yours."

John's blood boiled. He reined in his anger and forced a smile. "I don't remember asking you for your opinion; I remember asking you where Sherlock is."

She glanced over him coldly. "Sometimes, what you don't want to hear is what you need to hear."

He rose up on his toes slightly, towering over her. "Save it."

Her face cracked into a smile. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a smile full of promise. That crooked arc reminded John of soldiers he'd met in Afghanistan, soldiers who were far past caring about morality or what was right. It sent a shiver up his spine. 

"It's late, Dr. Watson. We'll have to discuss this in the morning, as I'm too exhausted to continue. Feel free to take the couch. Sleep well."

With that, she spun on her heel and left for a shadowy doorway across from the couch. 

Later, John lay on the lumpy couch until his fatigue overtook him and he surrendered to the sweet promise of sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick thanks to leyley09, my fantastic beta, and to Moftiss, for obvious reasons.

"Come on, John! The water's warm!" Mary's voice trilled across the apartment to where he stood. 

He grinned and hurried to the bathroom. As he approached, a sense of foreboding grew within him. He couldn't quite place its cause, but with every step he took towards Mary's sweet humming, the hair on the back of his neck stood up further. 

The bathroom he stepped into was identical to the bathroom in his childhood home, complete with the smell of liquor and stale vomit. Although his unease grew, he could still hear Mary's humming from the bathtub, a strangely comforting sound that spurred him further into the room. Suddenly, the humming stopped, and the only sound was the dripping of the faucet. Mary was still and silent. He froze and waited. Mary slowly rose, like a marionette, and turned to face him. Her face was oddly blank and devoid of expression, and her eyes were unseeing. 

"Come on, John. Come on. Come see what I did for us."

John stepped forward without thinking and joined Mary by the side of the bathtub. She pointed down into the water solemnly. 

John froze and stared. The bath was full of blood and utterly still. Sherlock's face bobbed in the water, blue and swollen. 

He realized Mary was talking to him. 

"It needed to be done, you see. For us. For Emily. He couldn't live. He knew too much. You understand, right? I saved us."

"Yes. Yes, you did."

OoOoOoOoOoO

John startled awake. He evened his breathing and blinked rapidly to dispel the last vestiges of his dreams. The evidence of dawn was dappled against the walls of the hotel room, and the sound of city traffic filtered in from the cracked window. 

A cupboard closed in the kitchen behind him, and a kettle whistled. 

He slowly sat up, stretching his neck before standing. His shoulder was always a little sore in the morning, but the pain usually dissipated within a couple of hours. 

"Ah, you've risen," a voice called from the kitchen. 

The events of the previous night raced back to him, and he straightened his back before turning around. 

"Yes. Do you have coffee?"

A snort echoed from the kitchen. "If you make it yourself."

He edged into the kitchen quietly, moving towards the decrepit coffee maker. 

There was a small table in the middle of the kitchen, where the woman of the night before sat, although to call her position “sitting” may have been a stretch. A more apt description would be to say that she was sprawled over half of the table with her head buried in her arms. 

"You alright?" 

"It's hard to tell before noon. Check back later."

He chuckled. John was comfortable rising early, a behavior learned from years of early shifts in the hospital and the need to beat the heat of the day in Afghanistan. It was quite clear that the woman before him was not quite as accustomed to rising at the crack of dawn. 

He felt a pang of pity for her, and after pouring himself coffee, he poured her the cup of tea for which the kettle had boiled. 

He sat across from her, sliding the mug over the table. It bumped her crossed arms and sloshed slightly over the rim of the cup. She groaned and lifted her head up slightly. Her face was wan and her eyes glazed, but she smiled slightly before reaching for the tea. The kitchen was silent as she blew across the surface of her cup.

"Thank you."

"Of course. Are you up for finishing our discussion from last night? Or should I wait for a complete system reboot?"

She looked to the side with a small smile. 

"I think I can manage, thank you."

"That's good."

"How did you know where I was?"

John struggled to remember the name of the girl from the night before. 

"Cami? Cinderella? Kelly? I forget her name. A woman on the streets."

"Cemile?"

"That's it. Is she okay? She looked like she'd had the shit beat out of her."

She sighed and looked to the ceiling. 

"She'd say she's fine. Cemile is the daughter of an associate of mine. Her boyfriend is a drunk. She believes he loves her, so she won't leave him."

The kitchen was silent again. She spoke first. 

"He left for Beirut yesterday. I'm supposed to be joining him tomorrow."

"Why not today?"

"He took a plane, so it took about two hours to get there. I have to drive, which'll take about eighteen."

John considered the geography in his head.

"Doesn't that mean we'll have to drive through Syria?"

"Yep," she said, popping the final letter, something that Sherlock frequently did. 

"Isn't that generally frowned upon, a foreign citizen crossing into an active war zone?"

"Yep," she said, popping it again. 

"Would I have to come with you to find him?"

"He leaves for Jordan in three days. So, yes." 

"Alright then."

"It'll be nice to have a doctor this time around."

He was suddenly reminded of a question he had meant to ask her.   
"How did you know my name?"

"Sherlock. He's always talking about his life in London. He's told me a lot about you in particular. He missed you, I think."

"Oh."

"Yes.Sherlock was right about one thing."

"What's that?" 

"You make really good tea."

"Thank you."

She suddenly stood and stretched, her chair sliding back with a screech on the linoleum floor. 

"I'm going to pack. You should too. We leave within the hour."

Wordlessly, she strode out of the kitchen, leaving John to ponder what he'd learned.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to leyley09 and Mofftis.

The trip to the car had been completed in near silence, and neither John nor the woman had said a word since they'd left the city.

John cleared his throat. "What's your name?"

The woman's eyes didn't move from the road. "Whatever you want it to be."

"Do you keep your identity hidden from everyone?"

"Mostly."

"Then where do you get the nicknames? Parfois, Bhānumatī?"

"One's from a friend of mine in India, and one's from a friend of yours."

His thoughts whirred to a halt. "Sherlock? Sherlock gave you one of those nicknames?"

"Yes. Parfois."

John had learned a little bit of French in school, but he'd forgotten all but the bare basics.

"What does it mean?"

She smiled wistfully. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes? Why?"

"He was a bit confused by my approach to my identity. I didn't tell him the same thing I told you."

"What did you tell him?"

"A different name every time. The first time I met him, my name was Charlotte. The second time, my name was Lillian. The third time, my name was Charlotte again. He was baffled, but the incident reminded him of a song, which is how he named me. Charlotte Sometimes, like the song by the Cure. He eventually shortened it to just 'sometimes.' Then he made it French to confuse other people."

The car was silent for a moment. She interrupted the quiet. 

"Call me anything you want. Those two names are the most common, but I'm always open to new additions."

John thought. "I don't know yet. Tell me a bit about yourself. Where were you born?

"Where does it sound like I was born?"

"The States. But where in the States?"

"Boston."

"Do you have any siblings?"

"No."

"Where are your parents?"

"Don't know." 

"What's your favorite color?"

She snorted. "Seriously? What are you, five?"

He stared at the side of her head meaningfully until she gave in. 

"Green. Like my pants."

He nodded, and turned to face front again. 

"Olive it is."

"Olive?" she asked, turning to look at him. She turned forward again. "I like it. Thank you." 

He smiled internally, feeling inordinately proud of himself. 

An hour passed in silence, and then another and another. He eventually fell asleep, waking to find the sun had gone down. Olive's eyes were still fixed on the road ahead. She glanced over when she noticed that he was awake. 

"We'll be stopping soon. We're almost there."

He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "We're in Lebanon?"

"Yes."

"Are you saying that I slept through Syria?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I slipped a sleeping pill into your coffee when you weren't looking. Sorry about that."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He wasn't shocked. He was surprisingly used to finding out about substances in his beverages, thanks to Sherlock. 

"Right. Okay."

The next minutes passed in an awkward quiet. 

"We're here."

The battered Jeep rumbled to a halt, and John practically threw himself out without looking back. 

He wandered into the dark for a couple feet, until he felt that he couldn't be seen from the Jeep. Just as he began to unzip his fly, grumbling to himself, he heard wheels on the hard dirt road. He paused and squinted into the dark. Before long, headlights appeared. He watched calmly as the truck crawled to a halt about twenty feet in front of him. Two men hopped out and walked over to him. He began to walk slowly backwards. They called out to him, gesticulating wildly. They continued to advance until they were in his face. 

Their rapid fire speech seemed to be in Arabic, a language that John was in no way familiar with. He attempted to inform them of his inability to understand them, but his efforts were ignored in favor of grabbing him by the collar and jerking him about. He surreptitiously reached for the gun in the waistband of his trousers, but was distracted by the two men releasing him. They began to shout over his shoulder. He could faintly hear Olive shouting back.

Suddenly, a vaguely familiar voice called out in English from behind the men.  
"Are you in need of assistance, Parfois?"

"These fine gentlemen seem to be under the impression that your friend is a spy of some form. They won't believe my protests to the contrary," yelled Olive. 

"My friend?"

"Aye."

Two gunshots rang out in the night. The two men holding John dropped to the ground. 

An easily recognizable silhouette stepped in the farthest reaches of the light. 

Olive sighed. "Damn it, Will. I needed to talk to them."

Will? 

John found himself talking without his permission. 

"Sher- Sherlock?"

The figure stepped further into the light. 

"Hello, John. Fancy seeing you here."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been waaayyy too long since I last posted, so I'll try to get these up in a quicker fashion. 
> 
> Tons of thanks to the lovely leyley09, on whose guidance I really so heavily. 
> 
> All credit for canon dates and characters goes to Mofftiss.

Olive’s voice cut across the growing silence in the moonlit desert. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”  
“Learned from the best. Namely, you, dear Parfois.”  
“The difference is that I’m not a pain in the ass when I’m dramatic. I also don’t fuck up missions, because I’ve not got an ego the size of the Eiffel Tower. You had no right to kill them, Will.”  
Sherlock shrugged, a gesture so incredibly familiar to John that he could practically see Baker Street. Its application here, in a foreign desert where the metallic scent of blood permeated the air, was alien and unwelcome. “Needed to be done, and you sure as hell weren’t doing it.”  
Olive jogged over from the top of the hill. She came to a halt in front of the two fallen bodies lying at John’s feet. Dropping into a crouch, she turned one of the men over. The previously thought dead body groaned. She sighed, dropping her head down and breathing deeply. John faintly heard her mutter something to the man before her hand moved to her waist. She stood and swiftly shot the man in the head.  
She kept staring at the ground. “When do I stop having to clean up your messes, Will? You weren’t sent out here to act as judge, jury, and executioner. You were sent to investigate people and and infiltrate organizations. You hired me to kill, convince, and get the more hands- on shit accomplished. Stick to your job, and I’ll stick to mine.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They sent me to get a job done. Does it really matter through what methods it is completed?”  
Olive stepped closer, sliding her gun back into her belt. “Of course it matters. Why wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t do such a thing, so why should you?”  
Sherlock stepped closer to her until he had infiltrated her personal space and the two of them were chest to chest. “I would do it because I’ve not bound myself to some bullshit honor code like you have. Trying to be a philanthropist doesn’t suit you, Parfois. You’re an international terrorist, and no amount of playing nice or waxing lyrical about ethics is going to change the fact that a lot of people are dead because of you.”  
Olive was silent, and the air was thick with words unsaid. The quiet was penetrated by the ringing of a phone. Sherlock, never breaking eye contact, removed a mobile from a pocket.  
“Mycroft.” He turned and walked back the way he’d come, covering one ear with the phone.  
John turned to look at Olive. She was staring off into the direction that Sherlock was headed, stock-still. Her face was unreadable. They stood in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before she turned on her heel and bent down again to examine the bodies.  
When she finally spoke, John was startled. “You mustn’t-,” she paused, uncharacteristically speechless for a moment. “You mustn’t judge him by his actions in the field. He- He loses sight of his objective sometimes. It’s hard for him, I think, having to do this, this particular line of work. He’s very good at it, don’t get me wrong, but he doesn’t always make the very best decisions.”  
She slid a knife from the belt of one man and a gun from the other. She wordlessly tossed the knife to John.  
Sherlock stalked back to them then, and handed the phone to Olive. She took it. “Yes, it’s me. Okay. Why? Right. When? You realize that the logistics are tricky, right? That’s a slightly illogical time frame. Fine, I’ll make it work. Why are you telling me and not Will? Oh. Bye, then.”  
She ended the call and unceremoniously tossed the phone to Sherlock.  
“Where are we going?” He asked.  
Olive turned on her heel and walked to the Jeep.  
“Jordan, he says. Get in the car.”  
“I have a car.”  
“Leave it. You know very well that if those two don’t make it back to their people, somebody is going to track the plates. There are eyes everywhere, especially where people like you are involved.”  
“Fine.”  
Sherlock motioned for John to follow Olive, the first acknowledgement he’d given since his initial recognition and greeting.   
“Let’s go then.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It has been quite a while since my last update, and for that I apologize. The metaphorical shit hit the fan over here, which is not a valid excuse, but there we are. At any rate, I actually have some stuff to cover here, which is a first.
> 
> 1) The only commercial airport (that I could find, anyway) in Lebanon is in Beirut. The others that I found were run by the military, and I deemed them not practical as a means of transport for a British Intelligence Agent. 2) There is a bit more cursing in here than in the other chapters that I have posted thus far, so I thought that warning might be in order. 3) I realize that Sherlock kind of went a bit OoC, but his behavior in this chapter is my head canon. 4) Hint of suicidal ideation, so this chapter may not be for you if you're triggered by such things. It's not too bad (in my limited opinion) but just thought that I'd toss that out there. 5) Sherlock's and Olive's/Parfois'/Bhanumati's alter ego names were chosen because of meaning. Sherlock's means "Servant of the One who Elevates," or "intellect." Olive's/Parfois'/Bhanumati's means "intelligent," "logical," or "one who reasons."
> 
>  
> 
> All credit for canon events and character goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Cumberbatch, and Freeman. Also, thanks again to my wonderful beta leyley09, who helped me immensely.

The car ride was, John would say, one of the most awkward situations he’d ever experienced. The seconds ticked by like hours, and the scenery never seemed to change. Olive had taken the wheel of the Jeep again, and, in true keeping with what John could ascertain of her personality, hadn’t said a word since they’d begun to move. Sherlock (William, John silently corrected) was scribbling in a notepad, brow furrowed and head down. John couldn’t quite make out what it said, but it appeared to be a hastily scribbled map of the area. He finally broke the silence. “So, where are we going?”

Sherlock cleared his throat as well before answering, face still directed at his notebook. “Jordan. Beirut, I’d imagine, as it has the only commercial airport in Lebanon.”

“Ah. What’s in Jordan?”

“A mission. Speaking of which, Parfois, I’ve the ID’s.”

“And?” Olive replied.

“Abdul Rafi and Akilah.”

“I’d wager that your brother picked ‘em.”

“Yes, yes he did. Or he recently acquired an agent with at least one functioning brain cell AND a sense of humour. They typically tend to have one or the other; rarely do they have both.”

John spoke before he’d properly thought about it. “What about me?”

Silence reigned again until Olive spoke.

“I’m going to pull over for a second for a phone call. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle.”

The car jerked to a halt and Olive slid out, disappearing into the dark after only a few feet.

John glanced cautiously towards Sherlock. Normally he would never hesitate to ask just what the hell Sherlock thought he was doing, but having watched his best friend murder two men in cold blood made him rethink his strategy. Sherlock was clearly in a different world, one in which there was little if any room for John.

“So-“ John started, before Sherlock coolly cut him off.

“What are you doing here, John?”

“I- I came to see you,” he stuttered, uncharacteristically shy.

“Obvious. Why?”

“You weren’t at Baker Street.”

“I haven’t been for a while. Why now, John?”

“Well, Mary and I got a divorce.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock responded, his tone flat in way that reminded John of a robot. His automatic and utterly apathetic response moved John to irrational anger. It outwards from the center of his being, skittering across his skin like an army of ants. His rage coalesced behind his eyes as his vision turned red.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say after you pushed me into a loveless marriage that failed, as loveless marriages are wont to do? That little girl isn’t even my little girl. She’s David’s. David’s! And where are you when I need you? In fucking Lebanon, with some American mercenary with no name. What do you have to say, other than “sorry,” huh?”

“Do you really want to know what I have to say, John? You won’t like it.”

“Tell me. Tell me what you can possibly say.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, lounging like a prince. “Alright. I’ll be completely honest with you. I don’t care. I don’t give two shits about if Mary’s left you, or if she was fucking David, or if your insecurity is at an all-time high. I’m not your goddamn therapist. You have no right to expect me to be there for you when your pride’s been struck a blow. Sure, I’m usually there. Sure, I usually make you tea and let you bitch at me. I don’t complain, because it means that it’s time you’re spending with me and not somebody else. So you know what, John? “Sorry” is all that I have today, because I’m completely out of fucks to give. I’m not going to be always waiting for you to grace me with your presence. I have a life of my own, believe it or not, that I would like to live. So yes, I’m in “fucking Lebanon” with an assassin of American origin. Guess what? I’m going to go to Jordan with her. I’m going to finish this mission, and then I’ll take another one. I’m hoping that if I take enough cases, one of them will be fatal, and I won’t have to go back home. So take your fucking problems to someone else, and leave me alone.”

John was awestruck. He slumped back into his seat, Sherlock’s words beating on the inside of his skull.

Sherlock spoke again. “Parfois is standing outside in the dark, pretending to be making a phone call. I’m going to get her, and then we’re going to drive to Beirut. You’ll get a plane back to England. I might see you again. I might not. But you don’t belong here, and I don’t belong there anymore.”

With that, he slid out of the door and slammed it shut behind him. Muffled voices and scuffling boots drew closer and closer.

John just sat in the darkened backseat and let his world crash around him.


End file.
